My Love I saw

(I wrote this poem inspired by a friend and her husband. My friend suffered a debilitating stroke about 4 years ago and her husband is so patient and tender and loving with her.  It is inspiring to see love lived so completely.  But I also wonder about the love that brought them together, and the way her stroke must have changed their marriage so unexpectedly and in so many ways.  Out for a morning walk, I saw those stars and the moon and thought of going in to speak those opening lines to my own wife when suddenly I saw the face of my friend and heard the voice of her husband as he gently bent toward her with a kiss.  This poem was recently published in Saint Anthony Messenger.)

My love I saw

The moon this early morning

resting in the bare branches

of an oak; three stars pinning

night aloft; the tree,

distinct; the stars

a dipper –perhaps.

Yet in the fading black

I stopped, and watched

to see if they’d become

something more

than a remark I would

later make to the stranger (almost)

who sleeps beside me

and wakes to sit in silence

near the window,

in her chair

or at the table,

wherever she is pushed

right hand trembling

in her lap she waits,

always waits.

I make the coffee

and try to make her smile

raising the cup

to her lips

whispering: my love,

I saw the moon …

Another anniversary poem

One of the hardships of being married to a poet, is the gifts are pretty

predictable... every year: a poem.  Thirty years --no diamonds, no jewels, only lots and lots of words...   This one written somewhere around year 15 or 16 (I think).

After the Halloween party

Quietly washing the dishes while the children play;

their laughter, whispers, the soft fade to silence--

all—music, music at the end of a long day

of plans changing, costumes changing, ideas –a dance

of opportunities and unimaginable dreams.

Could we? Maybe? How many? Is there a chance?

And as the last guest leaves, door closing, it seems,

standing at the sink, drying a glass that won’t fit

atop the drainer, piled high, it seems all their schemes

have come to this: a hand held out, “Mother, come sit.”

and a place made on the couch between three pearls

of such great price (a witch, a cat, a fairy); this is her life,

here! This is it.

She puts down the glass and goes to her girls

who gather toward grace, as blossoms to the sun,

drawing a quilt across gathered knees –and sigh--

                                    the day’s work –Oh yes! It is done.

Written after lunch in Schulenberg, TX

The ladies

in the garden shop behind the café

awaiting their call touch each velvet

leaf judiciously –fingertip and thumb

caressing-- They seem solicitous

in their gathering --as if
anticipating the beginning

of the world

A Mother's Day Poem

A mother’s love is all we bring

A mother’s kiss

Her welcome smile

Her gentle touch

Brings forth the child

We all were once

This little one

Who needed her

To bring us home

It is her love

That healed the wound

All injuries

Her hand that soothed

We come gift in hand

a card, a fist of flowers

But find all we have

Comes to us from her

A Manifesto

Today, I asked my class to write a personal manifesto. Here is my example:

A Her[Man]-i+fest=OH

We are made for more than fashion

More than feelings

More than make-believe monuments to popularity

We are made for more than Marvel movies

And monstrous mounds of money

We are made for silence and solitude and summers in the shade

We are made for Mozart and Leadbelly & lullabies about suicide

For Middlemarch and fairy tales and King Lear going mad

For hailstorms and hurricanes and candle light in quiet rains

For tenderness and mercy

For Love and absolution

And always to be giving

For foolishness and wisdom

For mistakes and misunderstandings

For nothing but the truth, and ever to be seeking;

Let me always open doors and often raise the roof, if only just a little--

Sunlight and fresh air are everyday essentials

(If necessary, break a window!)

Let even the rain and the heat and the cold find their place within me

Every time you sit to eat, leave room for one more

Every time someone asks for help, give everything you have

(And every now and then, give to someone who doesn’t ask)

And when you write, let your pen always move faster

Than your words –and let your words take you where you would not go

I saw a cardinal rise --a look into the writing of a short poem

I too, whisper: read

(inspired by a poem by Langston Hughes)

I am the aging librarian

They do not notice me when it’s time

To sing of teachers but instead

Ask who needs a library anymore yet

I whisper: Read this

And they look at me strange

Yet someday

One of them (perhaps) will remember

The old lady with the books

who whispered: read this

and will say to herself:

I read this because

I thought

She said

Reading it would make me strange

Instead it made me

Strong --now, I too, whisper: Read

(read the wonderful Langston Hughes poem here)